


None so Blind

by GloriaMundi



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Other, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-10
Updated: 2008-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always twilight and everything is grey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None so Blind

After some (more than three) days and a shitload of morphine, Sands is starting to notice that the darkness is neither absolute nor empty.

He can see the room he's in, its corners not quite square and that huge cupboard pushed into the corner. He sees the pearly square of the window and the dark opening of the doorway. There's a jangling bead curtain across it, the kind you see in head shops, but he can't tell what colour the beads are. It's always twilight now and everything is grey, shades of grey.

Like it ever wasn't.

There's something perched outside the window, something he doesn't have a name for. It's got fistfuls of claws and a mouth that's all teeth. It's staring in at him, back at him, and it has the advantage because it's got actual fucking _eyes_.

He gropes around under the grubby mattress but he can't find his gun. Sweat springs on his forehead and his upper lip, and his headache comes banging on the doors of his skull. He can't find his fucking gun, it's too dark in here to see anyth--

Sudden footsteps in the hall, steady slow tread, bootheels on bare boards. He remembers that gait from yesterday, remembers the swish of the curtain that's different from the angry clatter the doctor makes when he comes in. Too late to be the doctor, anyway. It's the middle of the day, smotheringly hot, so it's the woman again. Yesterday he thought she was his mother, but then he remembered Mom's funeral. Besides: no. No fucking way.

His visitor's not wearing perfume but he can smell her musky sweat, and the soap she washed with, and what she had for breakfast. She's pretty tall for a girl, and strong. She pushes him down onto his back on the clammy mattress, shushing him even though he hasn't said a word. This is what happened yesterday too, and Sands goes down easy when he's pushed, because the next bit's pretty good.

He doesn't try to stop her jabbing the needle in his arm. She doesn't go near the dressings, leaves them for the doctor who comes in the gloomy dawnless mornings. Just the needle, and the rush, and then her hands on the fly of his jeans, unzipping him. He's hard already, and he doesn't get any softer when she leans down over him and he feels her hair (he'd bet fifty bucks it's black and kind of greasy) brush over his belly. He's spreading his legs, lifting his dick for her, before her elbow nudges his knee.

Her mouth's big and wet and hot and soft and she might be a whore or she might be an angel but holy fuck, she knows what, she knows what she's doing to him, knows just when to stop and when to go as he swells against her tongue.

There's the sudden sharp pain of a fingernail pressing high on the inside of his thigh, and he gulps in a ragged wet breath, his dick throbbing against his own palm. Then nothing. Nothing. Noth-- Then her mouth descends on him again, and this time the thing that snags in his throat is a whine.

He can feel everything. _Everything_. He can feel the light from the window and the shape of her body and the rasp of her breath. He's so sensitive that her skin feels rough against his own. Thank fuck she's hardly touching him. Her elbows are pressing down on his knees, and he can feel each thread in her cotton shirt, and the heat of her behind the cloth. The shirt smells like male sweat and cheap cologne: must be her boyfriend's. It smells like being held down by Barillo's goons and he kind of wants to get away, but shit, if they'd done _this_ he wouldn't have objected.

He wants to see her but he can't make out her face. When he brings his hand up towards her mouth (towards his dick) to feel the shape of it, she bats his touch away. Her other hand is dragging slowly up his chest, pushing his t-shirt up, barely touching his skin. Her fingertips are callused like a guitar player's, hot against his nipple. Her mouth, her fucking mouth is round his dickhead, and it feels nothing like any blowjob he's ever got, even in fucking Mexico where you get a bigger bang for your buck. It feels as if the nerves in all his body have been stripped bare. It feels as if every light-gathering cell in his lost eyes has slithered down to his dick and is blazing away like napalm. It feels, oh it _feels_, and the darkness is so bright that he wants to squeeze his eyes shut against it.

Instead the light pours out of him.

The morphine's hitting sweet and true, his headache's muffled in cotton candy, the thing on the windowsill's fallen off or flown away or maybe it's just standing very very still. And there's a whisper, an accented whisper -- when the fuck did El turn up? -- telling him to sleep.

He can't close his eyes any more. He can't close out the world.

-end-


End file.
